


when the morning skies grow red

by dhils



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2.6k words of pure unadulterated nico hischier love, M/M, so much patriotism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 02:27:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16466939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhils/pseuds/dhils
Summary: Nico Hischier is not Nolan Patrick.His english is always going to come out flavoured with pinches of his hometown, and there’ll always be those edges in his personality that’ll never quite smooth out, no matter how hard he tries.Nico’s just not who they want him to be, and maybe a part of him thinks that's okay.





	when the morning skies grow red

**Author's Note:**

> this is fucking whack, i wrote this during a spare after watching a documentary on switzerland in my history class and i just
> 
> the title is deadass from the swiss national anthem im done

Nico doesn’t know much about the NHL outside of players he looks up to, the Pavel Bure’s and Datsyuk’s of the league. He doesn’t watch much game tape, or study the guys out on the ice dangling around string cheese defence like it’s the easiest thing in the world. 

It just makes him realize, the NHL doesn’t need a hero. It doesn’t need him. It doesn’t _need_ any of the draftees getting shipped in. They could skip the 2017 draft entirely and nothing would change. The league will still have its enforcers and its playmakers, the snipers will still have the softest hands on the ice, and the goalies will make still make their stops. 

The point is: no matter who goes first this year, they’re no saviour. None of the prospects are that type, none of them are getting crowned the goddamn second coming of jesus, already dubbed franchise players. It’s nothing like that.

And Nico’s not—he’ll never be _that_ player. That’s just not how it is for him, not for a lot of people that grew up where he did. 

 

 

Nico meets Nolan while doing media at the Top Prospects game, and it just isn’t anywhere near as tense as anyone had made it out to be.

They don’t exchange vicious words, or glares, Nolan shakes his fucking hand and he gets so close Nico thinks he’s going to pull him in for a hug. He doesn’t, but the thought’s nice at least. 

“Nolan,” he introduces himself with a little laugh. “I’m Nolan. I’ve heard so much about you, man. It’s great to finally meet up.” 

Nico blinks at him, and he doesn’t mean to be rude, but Nolan’s english comes out quick and bland. There aren’t very many up’s and down’s in his voice, he speaks too fast for much of it to register. 

“Yes, yeah, I know,” Nico says, trying to keep his words from shaking as they roll off his tongue. “A lot of, uh, questions that I get are about you, so. At least I‘m meeting the face behind them.”

“That’s always nice,” Nolan answers. They’re needlessly close, and his eyes are darting around restlessly. Nico feels a little self-conscious. “Putting a name to a face, yeah?”

Nico nods his head slowly. He’s not sure what else to say, and there’s a _good luck_ perched precariously on the tip of his tongue just when the PR lady comes in and rushes Nico towards his next interview, tossing a little smile between them. 

There isn’t all that much time for him to turn back and say goodbye, but they just don’t know each other very well.

 

 

Nico’s never going to have the crisp cleanly thought out media answers Nolan always pulls out with the drop of a hat. He’s never going to be able to be that picture perfect hockey sweetheart that smiles easily for the hundreds of cameras pointed his way, never the kind of person to be all that attracted to the publicity of playing pro.

Nico just—he wants to _play_. He doesn’t want to have to think about this, to worry about every time he ties up his skates, to have to justify every wrong turn he makes on the ice. 

One foot in front of the other, he just wants to live his life.

One foot in front of the other, without stubbing his toe.

 

 

Quebec treats them right. 

When Nolan pops open their window, the cool air blowing in is only harsh enough to give him goosebumps, and Nico’s from Naters. He thinks he can handle that much at least. 

“This good?” Nolan asks him anyways, because he’s in a sweater, of course he’s going to feel hot. Nico gives him the smallest shrug of his shoulders, tearing his focus away from the blur of whatever Nolan’s got playing on the TV.

“I’ll be fine,” he says mildly, and Nolan smiles at him, tucking himself under a blanket. It lessens the impact of that intimidating portrait the rest of the world has painted for Nolan. Declaring him the first overall pick and listing off each and every reason why, examining him down to his marrow.

Nico gets it too, but not as much. Not like Nolan. And he understands, he’s second in this, he likes it like that, but there’s still that soft tinge of relief in his gut to know— _really know_ that Nolan’s all human and not just some hockey robot.

“You excited for the game?” Nolan asks when he turns his head towards him, and there’s something on his face that calms Nico’s nerves. It shouldn’t work like that.

“I’m excited to finally get on the ice again,” Nico says, because it’s the truth, and Nolan laughs.

 

 

Nico‘s childhood wasn’t anything like Nolan’s.

Getting here, where he is, wasn’t easy. Nico was shrouded in shadows for the better part of his life, stored away in obscure Swiss leagues and quiet arenas. He was nothing compared to the big bad forces in the western world. 

And even after Nico dropped everything and flew across the _ocean_ it wasn’t until late autumn that scouts reached him, that NHL teams finally decided to let him in—the small Swiss boy with too many nerves and the wrong red and white.

Making the NHL isn’t easy. It’s never been easy and it’ll never _be_ easy, but Nico got the worse of two evils.

 

 

The Top Prospects game, as it turns out, is much less about winning than it is about proving yourself to scouts. Nico feels thousands of eyes watching him between the bench he has to _captain_ and the people in the stands.

It shouldn’t be as grounding as it is to catch Nolan’s too-blue gaze every now and then, to meet his eyes, watch the little twitch of his lips, and try not to smile back. 

It’s just—Nico has to work for this. He has to get on the ice and being second just means he has to work harder to crack first. It means every stride he takes is judged twice as harshly, every wrong move earning him whispers that drip with venom. 

He can close his eyes, but no one else will.

 

 

Nico’s not going to be that good Canadian boy Nolan is. 

His English is always going to come out flavoured with pinches of his hometown, and there’ll always be those bumps in his personality that’ll never quite smooth out, no matter how hard he tries. 

When the dust settles, he’s never going to have that on his side. Never going to be the brightly lit Canadian star all the little boys with hopes and dreams to make it to the show are going to look up to.

From too far up north, fitted in the heart of Europe, Nico’s just not who they want him to be. And maybe a part of him thinks that's okay.

 

 

Everything’s easy until they fall to Team Cherry. And they fall hard.

Nico tries to remind himself it’s not the winning that matters, it’s the proving himself, the having fun, but there’s a voice in his head telling him he’s only _worsening_ this. 

Everything is red. Nico’s stomach turns.

 

 

He wonders if this would be any different if he played in the Dub.

When he lies awake in bed, replaying conversations he’s had, the pang of confusion that would hit every other moment. Maybe it would be better, to start off in a league with a little more recognition than the Q. 

It was a bad idea, playing in east, Nico’s only ever heard of Jonathan Drouin and Nathan Mackinnon making it out unscathed—two Canadian stars, and he feels sick.

But, even then, he’s got the determination in his heart to rival the entirety of the Dub, the will to outwork them if he can’t outplay them, and maybe. Maybe.

 

 

Nico’s mesmerized by how red Nolan’s cheeks are ninety percent of the time, the colour blooming like flowers. He has to talk himself down from touching, from tracing a thumb along the blush. 

And maybe that’s just apart of his charm, the media darling persona he puts on every time he’s around cameras. All done up, pretty and pink, Nico would believe that. 

Nolan’s just—not like that in private. When Nico shuts the door to their room, the other shoe drops. Nico realizes he’s nothing but another teenage boy, weighed down by the pressure of the pros, and hockey, and the entire world _watching_ him. 

It’s interesting, to listen to him talk. To watch his mouth move, the way he tongues at his bottom lip when he’s deep in thought. And Nolan’s just so excited to speak, to give, that Nico doesn’t have to add much. He’ll babble on, sprawled out in bed, and Nico gets an excuse to look, which—

He likes it. He likes Nolan. Likes the fleck in the iris of his eyes, the flush he wears constantly, his bubbly personality, the way he wraps an arm around Nico like they’ve known each other for years. 

It’s okay. For the first time in a long time, Nico thinks it’ll be okay.

 

 

Nico Hischier is not Nolan Patrick. That’s just not how it was meant to be, it wouldn’t make much sense either. 

Nico’s got Swiss roots, he’s got the Alps, and a tiny little country landlocked in the middle of Europe. He’s got the rusty old posts he used to shoot pucks between, his favourite chipped hockey stick, and his childhood net with holes in all the wrong places. 

Nico’s not the hero the NHL is looking for. He’s not the Canadian role model millions will look up to, or the voice of whatever team he gets drafted to. Not for years, and years, and years.

But he’s in this to play, and maybe that should count for something.

 

 

It’s odd, just how much closer he is to Nolan by the time he gets flown back out from the Top Prospects game. 

It’s insane, how barely a handful of days with someone will change your entire perspective on them. Or the way it’ll change the tone between you two entirely. How now it gets Nico’s nerves jumping whenever they meet eyes, or Nolan’s fingers lingering for longer than they maybe should, or looking when he shouldn’t be. 

Nico doesn’t think about it, about _Nolan_ —not until he does. 

And when he does, it’s all wrong. It’s never anything he should be thinking up, trying to wonder just how Nolan’s mouth would feel pressed to his neck under a cool evening’s breeze, or how his hands would feel on his skin. 

It’s new, so, so new. That twist of _want_ in his stomach. Nico doesn’t know what to do with it.

 

 

They never told Nico he’d make it this far.

They never told him he’d be sitting in box seats next to Nolan Patrick and watching the Stanley Cup Finals. 

They never told him, growing up, that he’d be a top prospect, or that he’d even be considered a viable option to bring into the NHL.

Nico wasn’t raised that way. He wasn’t fed whispers of making the show. He was never born with a stick in hand, messing around in rinks before he even knew how to walk. 

Nico was never drafted in the WHL after barely cracking his teenage years, he was never named captain in the juniors, never given the opportunity to flourish. 

But he’s here. He’s _here_ , and anyone that put him down is eating their fucking words.

 

 

Nico does enough interviews with Nolan that he’s convinced he could write his biography if he had to. Listening to every perfect answer he drops from next to him, wearing a calm smile and speaking about as clearly as Nico wishes he could. 

And even then, even after that when Nolan’s hanging around in Nico’s room and they’re just shooting the shit, he has to back track on himself. Realizing that he _doesn’t_ know him as well as he thinks he does. 

But it’s nice, in a way, uncovering things about Nolan that he doesn’t reveal to the public eye, that secretive trust between them nobody else can touch. It’s only accentuated when Nolan leans his head against his shoulder, a hand on his thigh, and tells him, “This is going to be great.”

And it speaks volumes to hear him say it. Like a confirmation. A pinch to the arm reminding him he isn’t dreaming.

 

 

That’s one thing they share.

They’re both living their dreams. Two parts of the same puzzle piece, although fitting in at such different places. Neither of them talk about it like that, instead pressed in close and talking quietly about playing _for real_.

Nico watches the tension melt from Nolan’s shoulders, and there’s something therapeutic in that itself. 

 

 

(A little like the first time Nolan kisses Nico, under the dreamy yellow lights in his hotel room, with confident hands and slow touches. 

They held onto each other then like it’d be the last time they’d ever see each other, and Nico thinks it’s safe to admit that his heart broke at the thought.

When Nolan pulled away and swiped at the wet spot on Nico’s cheek, he didn’t ask a single question. Like he knew—knew everything all along, and it was okay. 

Nico didn’t let go.)

 

 

The draft goes a lot differently than he’d imagined. 

He steps up on stage in an unexpectedly crowded arena in Chicago, his own thoughts drowned out by the roars of cheering in his ear. Nico pulls on his jersey, slides on a cap, all muscle memory, and his heart gets stuck in his throat when he remembers that it’s red. 

He’s standing against a backdrop of scarlet, and Ray Shero got up on that stage to call his name— _first_. The arena had gone up into frantic applause, but Nico’s head went blank, even as he hugged it out with his family, as he pulled Nolan in and pressed his smile into his shoulder.

Nico’s mouth is dry as he says his thank you’s, and getting off that stage clad in red and white is almost as exhilarating as scoring a game winner.

He watches Nolan get drafted, watches the way he wears orange with all the pride in the world, and Nico thinks he’s perfect.

 

 

It’s not until the rest of Chicago falls asleep that Nolan sneaks into Nico’s room, making a face of panic at him when the door clicks shut louder than either of them had expected. 

Nobody can hear them, Nico doesn’t think so at least, but it still doesn’t feel as intimate to say the words, “I’m so proud of you,” in anything louder than a whisper. 

Part of Nico wonders if this is how it was meant to be, if this is the rightful 1 and 2 of 2017. He doesn’t even know how it happened, how months of worship for Nolan hit the fan like that, and he still can’t believe it. Even with the living proof of everything pressed up against him. 

Just. None of that matters now. Not the draft, or their teams, or the crowds of people cheering them on today. Nothing but—

“I love you,” Nolan says, his fingertips resting against the short hairs on the nape of Nico’s neck. He leans in to give him the shortest peck on the lips, and Nico can’t help the smile that takes over them. “Shit, I—I _love_ you.”

“Oh my god.” Nico laughs. It’s breathy and small, overwhelmed by everything. “I just—I love you, too. This is. Wow. Nolan, we,” he cuts himself off, isn’t sure what to say, but Nolan still fills it in with an excited, “I know.”

He reaches for the lamp on Nico’s bedside table and flicks the switch.

Everything falls dark.


End file.
